


Mirror Mirror

by Ergo_Prologue



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Nostalgia, holotape, letter to the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergo_Prologue/pseuds/Ergo_Prologue
Summary: Katherine had one goal; find her son. Already pushed to the edge of her sanity, she has a mental breakdown at the Institute when confronted with her own reflection. That is where her story ends. Unless her son can find her again, that is.
Relationships: Nate/Female Sole Survivor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. The First Recording

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katherine records a holotape, talking to her husband about how she is unable to fit into this world devoid of reflections.

I took for granted being able to see my own face. We used to live in a reflective world. Tall window fronts of stores, mirrors scattered throughout boutiques, a passing car door window, the rippling water of fountains, the shine of a Mr. Handy, and printed pictures. I saw myself in the world and shallowly existed in its reflections.

Do you remember right before the bombs fell? I was painstakingly going over my face in the mirror. I was worried about my scars from the car accident. They were still red and puffy lines then, circling around my right eye with a notch in the bridge of my nose where I broke it. The bruising and swelling had faded away by then, but I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to cover what was left. Did I want to accept my scars or try to get rid of them for the veteran’s ball? You said when I went back to working at the firm, the opposition would be quaking in fear of a battle scarred warrior. 

You were my ray of sunshine, always warm and smiling, confidant, too. I said I’d let them be and you kissed me where a red line curled around my cheekbone, wrapping your tan arms around me. I looked so pale against you I laughed.

‘Look at me’ I said. ‘I’m whiter than paper.’ You told me I was your Snow White. I asked if that was so you could be Prince Charming and you smiled. I let you play around with my hair. In a tangled bunch you put it up, down, to the side; strands of hair spilled out between your fingers like ink.

‘Up,’ I said. You held my hair as I put in the bobby-pins, falling into routine. You liked to help me in the morning when I was going to court, psyching me up with pep talks like I was about to enter a boxing match. ‘Pace yourself, Katherine, you can get em in the second round, don’t get distracted, you trained for this! Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’

After the bun was in place you ruffled my bangs with your fingers. 

‘Just the right amount of messy to be cute,’ you said. ‘But neat enough to be classy.’ You kissed my neck and squeezed my shoulders, telling me not to be nervous. I told you I had a lot to be nervous about these days. I remember how soft you’re face became, how tender and understanding you were, how clearly you saw me.

‘You’re going to get the hang of it, give yourself time,’ you said. You put your arms around me and held me close. You were hot like a furnace. It felt like I had my back against the sun. You told me I was already a good mom. I didn’t say anything. Instead, I kissed you and left to get my morning coffee.

When I fell out from the cryo pod, the first thing I tried to do was get you out. Like that would unwind time and steal the bullet from your head. When the sealed door raised, I reached out to touch you. You were so cold it burned. I ignored the pain and pulled you down onto the floor, screaming for help. I held you close, breathing heat into the nape of your neck, begging you to wake up. But my own fingers were stiff with ice, my body shivering. I was damp and wet and freezing and nothing I did could bring back your sun kissed warmth. You were blue and limp in my arms. I took your ring and crawled away, gasping and sobbing as I tried to leave.

Once I could walk, I stumbled through the halls of the vault, desperately searching for my own face. I don’t know why. I think I needed to confirm that this was reality, needed to know that I was here, needed to see myself as part of it. But the shine of my world was gone. Everything was shattered and rusted and layered up with grime. The only ghost I saw of myself was my own shadow. 

When I got out, I realized that I don’t exist in this world. There are no lawyers, no garden parties, no bathroom mirrors. The skeletons of towns and cities are what remain, stripped back of their skin. The concrete and rebar they’re made of stares nakedly back at me, inviting me inside the dark entrances of collapsed walls. All that festers here is violence and misplaced hope. The people I find are caught between worshipping the past and grieving the future. Some can see beyond that, though. 

New people live in our neighborhood. They’re tearing down the wrecked houses to rebuild. Our house is one of the few that are still intact. They don’t touch it, only I’m allowed inside. All the photos have turned to dust, most of the furniture is moldy or broken, but Codsworth was still there. Two hundred years all by himself, the poor thing. He gave me your holotape. 

Those people, though. I can’t stay with them, I’m not one of them. Because when I think of myself, I still see the young woman in the mirror, worrying about her scars and if she’s too cold to be a good mother. I cling to that as I rip through this rotting world looking for our son. He is the only reflection of us left. Will he have your brown eyes or my pale blue? My dark hair or your golden strands? Or will he be a perfect mix of us? No clear side winning over the other? 

Will I recognize you in the crook of his smile? I hope I do. If that’s the only thing he keeps from you, that would be just enough. 

Goodnight, honey.

I love you.


	2. The Last Recording

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katherine makes it to the Institute but only finds empty reflections.

It’s not him. He’s lying. It’s not- that’s not- I would know. I would have felt it when I saw him. He can’t be Shaun. There’s barely a sliver of you in him. He’s not our baby.

I tried to make him tell the truth. Pulled a knife out. They put me in a room by myself, stripped me clean of all my things. They let me keep you, though, thank god. 

It’s too clean here. Too bright. Have they already cleaned my footprints away, do you think?

I’m scared of touching the bed. It’s not meant to have a human in it. I’ll wrinkle the sheets just by looking at it.

There’s a door- to a bathroom?

[click of door opening with a gasp]

Shit!

[sound of clattering - falling to the floor]

Hoo~ Wow-wee, haha, scared me. Thought I saw someone moving inside. Now hold on...

[rustle of clothes]

Hey, is that- it is. It’s a mirror. A mirror, Honey. It’s- I- Can you believe it? Ha, a real mirror. In this day and age? Can I? No. But I can- I should- No. Ha, how strange, why can’t I?

Honey, I can’t do it. I can’t look at myself. Isn’t that the strangest thing? I’m shaking! It’s just a little mirror. 

[a few quiet steps and a small gasp] 

Who? You don’t- is this really a mirror? It feels like a window. I don’t recognize her. Who is she? She looks like every other wastelander I’ve run into, that can’t be right. She’s not a lawyer.

I look so... cold and wet. Like I never fully defrosted from cryo. Was I always this pale? This sickly looking? My scars; they’re barely there. Just long white threads now. When did my eyes become so bloodshot? Why do they look cloudy? The space- it’s empty behind me. It’s so horribly empty. But you’re here, right? You’re still here. I just can’t see you.

But our son is still gone. Or worse. Is it really him? Did he really make me cross through hell to see if I would give up? That doesn’t sound like you. It doesn’t sound like me. He doesn’t sound like us.

What’s the point?  
I can’t find you anywhere. There’s nothing of you left.  
There’s nothing of me left, either. Nothing.  
What’s the point.  
Why am I here.

Who am I still here for?

We’re already dead.


	3. The Father

He ejected the holotape and returned it to its stack. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, staring blankly at his reflection in the black computer screen. Barely a sliver of you in him. The first photo he saw of his mother running through the wastes, he thought, I must look more like my father then. She was a dainty little thing. Surprisingly robust for a naked songbird. 

He eased out of his chair, joints popping. After stretching his back and neck he picked up the tapes. Back into storage they’d go. Just another piece of the wasteland’s history to be catalogued and mocked. How long would they wait before treating her like an interesting bit of trivia? Some time after he died, he imagined. 

He left his room and slowly walked through the halls. They were so desolate. The Institute did not teem with life. Instead, ‘life’ was pressed between two sticks of glass and pinned down underneath the lens of a microscope. Mysteries were not allowed here. Except for one. He changed direction and headed towards the medical wing. Shifting through the tapes as he briskly walked, he barely noticed the synths and scientists that parted from his way. When he got to the private patient rooms he slowed down, looking up at the signs of letters and numbers. 

“Father,” a doctor greeted. His stomach clenched, but he managed to force a nod and a half baked smile before continuing on. Father. It had struck him as strange when first addressed as such. Over time he tuned it out, had almost forgotten its meaning even. To have to explain it to his mother, though... He had felt a sickening flush of embarrassment. It was like he could suddenly stand outside himself; see what his mother saw. She was not a true wastelander. She was smart and educated, from a time when exposed brick and cockroaches were novel, when cleanliness was the standard and not a point of pride. Before her stood an old man with a cult of obedient toy children, claiming to be her long lost baby. Madness. Pure madness. 

He found her door and lightly knocked. After waiting a few seconds he opened it and walked in. Everything was just as he’d left it before. The machine that monitored her heart and brain activity beeped quietly. The IV drips were full. Her body was laid out neatly in bed, her eyes staring emptily at the ceiling. He rolled a stool from the wall over and set the tape stack on the bedside table. Her pipboy was still untouched. He picked it up, wiping the dirty screen with his coat sleeve before he checked the slot for the tape. Still unused. He put it back on the table, then sat down and summoned his friendliest smile.

“Hello again,” he said. The position of her irises flickered. A good sign, given how degenerative her condition had become. He leaned forward so she could see him. “I went through your recordings. An intrusion of your privacy, I know, my apologies.” No reaction. He settled back on the stool. “I was hoping to find something we could talk about. If you would like to talk.” He slid the bottom tape from out underneath the stack. He held it up for her. “You mentioned on your first recording a tape that you’d been given. Do you still have it?” Her head gave the smallest jolt as her eyes focused. A tiny spark of life that faded as quickly as it came. He set the tape aside and gently touched her shoulder. “If you tell me where it is, I’ll get it for you.”

Her head lazily rolled to the side, looking away from him. Her expression was still as blank as ever, but he knew well enough she was done with him. He retracted his hand and her head righted itself.

“I want to help you, Katherine.”

Her lids lowered as her eyes became red with irritation. She closed them before the tears spilled over. Her heartbeat sped up under the strain. He hadn’t meant to get that kind of reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He collected the tapes and left, her heartbeat slowing once the door closed behind him.


	4. A Face to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the archives.

They put her under a blue sky again. He didn't think the simulation dome would do anything for his mother at first. She knew what the real world looked like. But after going through her things, ripping apart the seams of her clothes and breaking apart her armour, he still hadn't found the missing tape. He also swept over her room, in the sick ward and the holding area. There was no tape hidden underneath a sink or inside an airduct, nor inside the mattresses or between the bed springs. It was maddening, but that paled in comparison to what he'd put his mother through. 

So under the blue sky she went. They rolled her in her bed unto the platform with electrodes attached to her temples. For the sensory effect, he was told. While he could see the hologram of tall grass around her, swaying in a non-existent breeze, she could feel it. The warmth of the sun, the cool reprieve of the wind, the hardness of dirt against her back, the hush and sigh of the grass as it bowed forward and backward. No doubt she could also smell the fresh nature and salty taste of dirt. It soothed her. When he was around her, her face was blank and tight. Here? Her jaw was slack and her eyelids heavy as she was lulled into a nap under the spring sun. 

He hated it. 

The staff surrounding her case were becoming bolder. It was an endless march of ideas of how to improve her condition. He turned them down. It could improve her condition but she would never be herself again. What he needed was the woman who crossed the commonwealth. He'd watched her bloom into a modern demigod hero; an unstoppable force the likes of which the world hadn't seen in centuries. And her she was. Limp and dead to the world. He felt his fists tighten and he leaned forward, letting the glass cool his forehead. He would bring her back. Somehow. He had to. Internally, he clung to the tape. It would light a fire in her again. If not... He would have to completely rethink the future of the institute. Everything depended on her, on him convincing her what needed to be done, to drag the dawn of civilization by its hair into being. The institute needed a leader and he couldn't think of a better candidate to conquer the commonwealth than the woman who danced through it like rain without getting wet.

He sighed and pressed his palm against the glass, planting it over her small body resting in the grass. What if just the tape wasn't enough? What then? If he could find the tape he would have a sample of her husband's voice. And with that, well. He can't bring back the dead, but he can birth something new. He pushed away from the glass and left the observation room. Would she accept a replicant? He wasn't sure. He threaded through the hallway, the members of the institute nodding hellos and whispering fathers. She'd gotten to the institute with some help; she was affiliated with a smattering of groups, including the Railroad. Now that was key. He found his way to where they kept records recovered from the before the nukes dropped. 

It was a stuffy area, tall computer drives loomed over him as his shoes echoed sharply in the maze. He just needed to find a terminal and- There! Once activated, he searched for the information recovered from the vault he'd been rescued from. Or stolen from, if you asked his mother. Before she became ill, that is. It got him a dizzying array of information and not all of it relevant. He frowned. True, he often ordered others to comb through the data for him, but he didn't think it would be that difficult to do it himself. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and groaned. Had he gotten so old that quickly?

"Father." 

He turned. A synth, an older model with grey skin and empty eyes, stared at him. It had its own collection of tapes. Most likely adding to the archive, he thought. He waved it over and it shuffled to his side. 

"There's data I need for an experiment, can you fetch me one of the archivists?" he asked. 

"What data do you require," said the synth, his head whipping unnaturally to the side too look at the terminal. An older model indeed, it didn't even register the second half of what he said. 

"Find me an archivist."

"The archive does not keep track of the archivists," it replied.

"Oh for the love of," he looked over his shoulder at an empty hall of drives. "I'm looking for a pre-war specialist." He turned to leave, intent on finding an aid, when he heard the rapid fire of click clacking on the terminal. It was the synth, its fingers nimbly going over the keys. The tapes were placed on top of the boxy terminal. It looked up. 

"Pre-war specialist is a broad term, may this unit suggest key words to narrow the search?"

"Suggest?" he stopped and glared at the synth. "That is not a function of your model."

"The archivists have modified this unit to do so," was all it gave in explanation.

"Alright..." Perhaps they modified it to suggest key words to better navigate the archives. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that and hoped that was the only modification. They had enough difficulty reigning in the more intricate models when they deviated from their programming. He started walking back to the terminal, "What are you suggestions?"

"Possible inputs listed as thus; Katherine Rook, Sanctuary Hills, Froyer and Jacobson Law, Saint-" 

"Wait."

"On standby."

He circled the synth, scanning it up and down, "Why did you suggest those?"

It kept its head fixed on the terminal, "You required data for your current experiment. The only information in the archive that is related to that experiment contains the key words Katherine Rook, Sanctu-"

"I get it," He grumbled and the synth went silent. After a moment, he said, "Find key words in relation to Nate Rook, Katherine's husband. Leave out any cross over."

It tapped away again and just a few seconds later it spoke up again, "Infantry Unit, Battle of Fort West, Veteran's Ball-"

"No no no," He looked over the synth's shoulder at the screen. "Are there any recordings of him. Visuals of him. Interviews. Something like that."

"Recordings," it repeated back, processing. "The suggested key words can be used in conjunction with data type such as audio and video."

"Hmm," He rubbed his chin. "Yes, that will do." This time the synth looked at him and he flinched as the glowing eyes bore into him. 

"This will bring up audio and video tagged with Nate Rook, but may not bring up audio and video of Nate rook."

"Right, right."

"Do you have audio and video of Nate Rook to use as reference for this search." 

Back at square one. He shook his head, more so at himself than the synth. He was stuck in a negative feedback loop. The synth clicked clacked at the terminal unprompted. He watched it, too curious to stop it. Once it was done, it snapped its head again to look at him. 

"Vault one hundred and eleven contains the body of Nate Rook according to the archives."

"Yes, and? It's rotten by now."

He heard the hum of the synth's parts speed up. Whatever it was doing, it was stretching its limits. It continued, "Three hundred forty five days ago, this unit added coding for pre-war facial recognition software into the archive."

"Facial recognition," he repeated, his turn to process this conversation. 

"Archivist Simmons commented that the software relies on recognizing the bone structure of the face."

"Bone!" He laughed breathlessly. "Of course, we can use his skeleton, all the measurements are there. We can extend the recognition to his body if we wanted to."

The synth's hum died down, "Were this unit's suggestions efficient."

He smiled, an understanding of why the archivists kept this synth around now dawning on him. 

"Brilliantly so," He said. "You clever little thing." 


End file.
